Walk the Battlefield
by SherlockLives19
Summary: Sherlock returns after the Fall expecting to see John. Instead, he finds that John has gone back to Afghanistan. This, he concludes, was not how he had planned for this all to happen. Read both of the Prologues if the first doesn't pique your interest.
1. Prologue - Sherlock

**Walk the Battlefield**

"Oh!"

Sherlock sighed as Molly jumped. "I assumed that you knew that I was here."

"Sherlock, you haven't been here for months!" Molly said, fumbling to finish pulling on her lab coat. "And what are you doing _here_? You know..." She dropped her voice. "In the public."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Molly, this is a hospital staff room. You do not have to lower your voice."

"But everyone thinks you're dead."

"I am aware. I think it's time for my dramatic re-entrance into the living world," Sherlock said dryly, placing his hands into his pockets. "I went to Baker Street and checked John's flat, but I can't seem to find him."

Molly frowned. "Didn't you know?"

Sherlock resisted the urge to sigh in annoyance. "Obviously, Molly, whatever you are speaking of, I do not know about it. Especially if it concerns John. As you mentioned, I haven't been here for months."

"John went back to Afghanistan."

Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together as his lips twitched downwards. "He went back to Afghanistan?"

"Yeah... three months ago. He was called back," Molly said.

Sherlock looked at her intently. "Do you know when he's due back?"

She shook her head. "No... Sorry. He didn't tell me, but we weren't exactly the best of friends even before the fall."

Sherlock's sigh was involuntary. "This... This is a bit not good."

Molly smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry. But you can write him a letter and let him know what's going on..."

"Yeah. 'Dear John, I'm still alive. I'll be at Baker Street and I've bought extra milk. Sherlock' That'll work well, Molly."

"Are you still going to come back, you know, officially?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Yes... I have no reason to stay away. And perhaps Mycroft can do something about John..." he trailed off.

Strangely, the enthusiasm he had felt about finally being able to return to London had vanished. It was great to be back but John wasn't here... Odd how his excitement had just vanished without the prospect of his flatmate.

"I'm sure," Molly said cheerfully. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock flickered his gaze back to her.

"I'm glad you're back."

"Yes," Sherlock said shortly as he turned and strode away.

London without John was barely London at all, he decided.

When had he become so sentimental?

Sherlock sighed. Against his better judgement, he was going to have to have a face to face with Mycroft to let him know that he was still alive.

After all, without John, there was little point to his return at all.

* * *

**New idea for a new AU. Keep in mind, this is just Sherlock's Prologue... the whole of the story hasn't begun. But... I'm sure you can make some possible deductions, my dear Sherlockians. :p**

**I do not own ****_Sherlock_****. I would love to hear your thoughts thus far... even though I know there's not much to go on. Does the promise of h/c lure you to stay with it? ;) At least stick around until the end of the next chapter before you decide, please. Thank you.**


	2. Prologue - John

It wasn't a choice, not really. There wasn't a choice to make. It was an idea that blossomed into something bigger and bigger until it consumed John's life and there was nothing left to do but rejoin the one thing that had got him to where he was in the first place.

So, he had gone back to Afghanistan.

There was nothing tying him back. Sherlock was gone (John still couldn't think _dead_ without his stomach twisting, without losing his breath). John himself had left Baker Street. He didn't have a girlfriend, doubted he would ever have a girlfriend. He certainly didn't have a family. He was a loner with PTSD and he missed the action of a life that was unpredictable. There was no hope for him.

So, he went back to Afghanistan.

It hadn't helped, not much, not in the beginning. The first couple of weeks was the worst, getting used to the lifestyle that he had not been incorporated in for almost eighteen or nineteen months. But he quickly lost himself in the battle wounds. These soldiers were hurt, wounded, scarred beyond belief in ways that John could comprehend. In ways that he could empathise and sympathise and he wasn't the only one who hurt. Because getting shot in the shoulder or having a psychosomatic limp in the leg had nothing on losing a best friend or getting an arm blown off. He had been lucky before and he had never realised it.

He had constantly, day-to-day, lived with the fear that something with happen to Sherlock. Mostly, this was just on days that Sherlock did something particularly stupid, like tried to take pills or ran into traffic and sniffed out bombs or even going after a mutant super-dog in the dark. But it had been that nagging feeling- _John, this can't last forever_- and it hadn't and he didn't know why it surprised him so much or why it hurt so much.

But, it did. And after Sherlock was gone, there was no going back to a normal civilian life.

So. Afghanistan.

"Watson, tourniquet needed!" one of his comrades- Jones, he thought- called, and John hastened to reply.

Being in the midst of flying projectiles, exploding bombs, dust flying, and carnage... It was something that he couldn't rightfully say he missed. Now, if war was obsolete, if there was no need or reason to the senseless killing, John would be overjoyed. But if there was a war to be fought and he wasn't helping to fight it, he was lost.

With Sherlock, he had been fighting Sherlock's war. To prove to the world that he was right, that he was intelligent, that he was human, that he was brilliant, that he was annoying but the best man he had ever known. Without Sherlock, John still tried to do those things... but people didn't want to listen when that 'best man' had ended up being a fake.

John didn't care what they thought. Taking a leaf from Sherlock's book, he had told them that they were stupid to their faces and ignored them. He didn't care what Sherlock had said at last- Sherlock was his best and always would be his best friend. He would believe in him no matter what Sherlock said, was being forced to say, because that's what best friends did.

Afghanistan.

John quickly, expertly, tied the tourniquet around the bleeding man's leg. "You're going to be just fine..." He quickly inspected the man's tags. "Brett. Is this your first tour of duty?"

The young man nodded quickly, his pain filled eyes seeking out John's. John did not smile; not because of the severity of the wound but because it was something that John did very little of nowadays.

"Good to have you on the field, Brett. I'm Captain Watson, and although I wish I could say we were meeting under better circumstances, we're not. This is Captain Jones; we're going to get you back to the med tent."

With little instruction needed, he and Jones carried the bleeding man back to their tent. John immediately started applying pressure to the wound as Jones gathered the rest of the necessary equipment for stitches. The bleeding needed to stop before he could stitch up the gaping hole.

It wasn't like John didn't have flashbacks. He did. The first week of this, the first time he had seen someone else's blood, he was back at St. Bartholomew's, fighting his own battle through a crowd of bystanders to get to his bleeding friend. He hadn't been able to save Sherlock, but these people were put in front of him to save. He could not let them down. Not like he had let Sherlock down.

John was quick and methodical. A life with Sherlock had kept him on his toes. Once the wound was stitched up properly, John left the other doctors in the tent to tend to the young man and he went back to the battlefield.

_"When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield."_

Mycroft had been right, so many moons ago. Now that John couldn't walk with Sherlock, the battlefield was the closest thing he had to Sherlock. It was sort of like... When he walked the battlefield, he saw Sherlock. It was the best thing he got, rather than talking to a slab of black rock.

"Get down!"

John hit the ground without being told twice. _Vatican cameos_, his mind supplied- but no, that life was over.

When the smoke had cleared, he was back on his feet.

He was intent on the newest patient- an older man having taken shrapnel to his face, an eye, even- when another yell pierced the air. Instinct took over and he dove for his patient, to knock him to the ground, to protect him, because he was a brother, comrade in arms-

Pain exploded up his back. The scream was involuntary and he didn't even know it was _his_ scream until others of his med troop were scrambling over to him. He was vaguely aware of an explosion, far too close, but he couldn't see through the dust and he couldn't hear anything else through the screaming.

_John!_

The voice that called his name was not a voice that could be on the battlefield. It was a deep, dark, baritone of a voice that far too often haunted his nightmares and plagued his memories. It was Sherlock's voice- something John would never live to hear again.

If he was hearing Sherlock's voice, he knew he was dying. Because Sherlock was dead.

Right?

Everything was fuzzy, confusing and disconcerting. He closed his eyes- or maybe they were closed already- and tried to block out the pain.

As with the past many, _many_ months, he couldn't. And, as with the past many, many months, he didn't try to.

He just closed his eyes and waited for the end.

* * *

**Now you see why I asked for the readers to stick around 'til John's Prologue... and why I posted it so quickly, too. Now that both of the boys 'Prologues', per se, are out the way, the plot, which you can perhaps deduce at this point... although maybe not :p will be thickened in the next Chapter, which will actually be 'Chapter One' and I promise it will be longer and more informative. :)**

**But I had a reason for you all to stick around to John's Prologue :p**

**Thanks for the reviews/favs/follows thus far. Keep them coming; I love to hear your thoughts!**


	3. Chapter One

Meeting with the rest of London- mainly the people that he knew and remotely cared about- had been something for the record books, Sherlock imagined. Molly had already known; she hadn't stopped smiling at him whenever he was around. Mycroft had rolled his eyes, but had Sherlock detected a hint of relief in Mycroft's voice? Assuredly not. Lestrade had punched him, literally, which hurt, although not as nearly as much as the hug that the DI had pulled him into afterwards, in front of all New Scotland Yard. Mrs Hudson had gone into hysterics and Sherlock had, awkwardly, spent most of the rest of the night trying to calm her down before falling asleep in his old bed in his old room at Baker Street.

God, he had missed this place.

He had slept better that first night at home than he had for the past many months. Even though John wasn't there, which was a thought that was lodged into his consciousness and unconsciousness, nagging away at him... He had slept soundly.

Mycroft was working on John's involvement with the war, so Sherlock was told. He knew nothing about it- mostly things for Queen and Country, he didn't understand and tended to avoid- but he trusted Mycroft to get his blogger back home. Occasionally, he was behind Mycroft's shoulder as he worked, but it was foreign to him, quite literally.

It was one of those things that would take time, Mycroft had said, and after being away so long, Sherlock could wait a little longer.

Sherlock begged to differ, but he didn't say a word. Instead, he just longed for the day that he would get the news that John was on his way back home. He would not admit that, of course.

Three weeks had gone by since Sherlock had gotten back to London for good. So, when his mobile rang early that morning and he saw the Caller ID was his brother, he rightfully thought that Mycroft had finally pulled the right strings and John was on his way back home. The idea of his blogger returning made his heart soar... something he quickly squelched. They still had to get through the awkward reunion and the explanations before they got back to what they were before.

No, Sherlock realised, he and John would never be the same. Not really, not after Sherlock's faked suicide, but... if they got back to crimes and killers and giggling at crime scenes, Sherlock would be happy.

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't _excited_ to meet up with John again. That was self-evident in his quest to get John back to Baker Street. There was more emotion, more sentiment there, that frankly frightened him, but it had happened and he couldn't take it back. He couldn't act like nothing had changed, because it had. It was frightening, but it was what it was.

"Mycroft," he greeted. "Did you manage to catch my elusive doctor?"

_"Sherlock,"_ Mycroft replied. _"We need to talk."_

Sherlock paused. "We are talking. Why? What's wrong?"

_"Stop by the house when you get a chance,"_ Mycroft said. _"Now, if you're not busy."_

"Why? Mycroft? What's going on?" Much to Sherlock's displeasure, he found that Mycroft had hung up on him. Sherlock frowned at the steady beep of the disconnected dial tone before hanging up and going to get dressed.

He hailed a cab and drummed his fingers impatiently. Clearly, something was wrong. Since Mycroft was in charge of John's welfare and warfare, as much as he could be, Sherlock's mind immediately jumped to John. Was something wrong with John? Could Mycroft not get him back from Afghanistan? Had he been transferred?

He paid the fare and climbed out of the cab when they had arrived, going immediately to knock on the large oak doors of Mycroft's home. He was answered by... Anthea, Sherlock believed the woman's name was at the moment... and he pushed ahead without waiting on her instructions. He went straight to the sitting room and impatiently paced until Mycroft showed up a few moments later.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, striding across the room to stand in front of him. "What's going on? What news do you have?"

Mycroft gestured to the armchair. "Take a seat."

"I don't want to take a seat. What's going on?" Sherlock repeated.

Mycroft sighed. "Sit down."

With a scowl, Sherlock sank onto the edge of the armchair. "Tell me, Mycroft. I'm not some fainting maiden."

"As is obvious, Sherlock, that is something that you will never be." Mycroft offered him an envelope. Sherlock was not blind to the logo of the war office on the front.

He swiped it from Mycroft and flipped it open, pulling the letter from it. He unfolded it impatiently and scanned the letter. It took him three tries before he actually got the utter and true meaning of it.

He looked up at Mycroft. "John's missing?"

Mycroft inclined his head in a nod. "As of six days ago. He was expected back at the base and he never showed up. Several more of his medical troop have been reported missing as well."

Sherlock looked back at the letter before letting it flutter to the floor. "What's our next plan of action, then? You have to find him."

"Sherlock-"

"Don't 'Sherlock' me, Mycroft. I know what you're going to say and I will not entertain that fact. John is _not_ dead."

"How do you know?" Mycroft asked.

"I..." Sherlock trailed off. "He is not. I would know."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Is this my brother, Sherlock Holmes, giving fact to the unproven theory that he would actually know if his best friend, miles and miles away, in a different country, was dead?"

Sherlock glared. "Don't be dull; he just isn't. He wouldn't... he wouldn't give up so easily."

"He had nothing to come back for, Brother."

Sherlock stared off into the distance, at the fire flickering in the grate. "Well, now he has something to come back _to_," he said shortly. "And you are going to bring him back. We are going to bring him back."

Mycroft looked at him emotionlessly. "What do you expect me to do? My jurisdiction is limited to Britain, Sherlock; you know that."

Sherlock scowled. "You can start wars; you can do something. And you've done business with the Germans and the Russians. You can manage Afghanistan."

"I wouldn't even know where to begin."

"Begin where John was last stationed," Sherlock said immediately. "Trace him back to his latest base and track the troop's movements. Go to the station where he was supposed to be at six days ago. Analyse who they were fighting against, I'm sure there's a specific group, something that sets them apart, where they might be... I don't know anything about this; you'll need to see. Somewhere, in between where John left and where John was supposed to arrive, he got lost. Maybe he got hurt, maybe he was taken hostage... A prisoner of war."

"Technically, Brother, soldiers are known for disappearing and turning up at different bases," Mycroft said.

"Maybe so, but we're not waiting. For John to even leave his troop designates that something is very wrong. He's a doctor; he wouldn't willingly abandon the one reason he thought he had left to live. He's injured. I'm beginning to think a POW is most likely." Sherlock pressed his fingertips together, steepling them in front of his nose. "We need to start there..."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock flickered his gaze to Mycroft again. He dropped his hands away from his face, glaring. "What do you expect me to say? I am not going to stand by while my flatmate goes through even more torture than what I have put him through."

Mycroft looked at him steadily. He didn't say anything, which made Sherlock feel uneasy. He narrowed his eyes and met Mycroft's gaze.

"What?" he asked in a monotone.

"You have changed, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock got back to his feet, fixing his jacket. "I don't know what you mean."

Mycroft turned away. "This aside, how do you expect me to trace John's movements? I have no control over the soldiers there, nor any quick way to get a correspondence to them."

"Well, I'm sure you can manage," Sherlock said.

"I'm sure," Mycroft muttered.

Sherlock was halfway to the front door before he was hit with an idea. He pivoted on his heel, looking back at his brother. "Sign me up."

Mycroft glanced up. "Pardon me?"

"Sign me up. For Afghanistan. Get me down there," Sherlock said defiantly. "I want to go down; I want to do my own deducing."

"Sherlock, you are not qualified-"

"I don't care."

"They will not accept you without the proper training, even with my recommendation."

Sherlock sniffed. "Then get me on a crash course. Do what it takes and get it done as soon as possible. It's only for a case. I'm not actually going to be fighting..."

"You hope," Mycroft said.

Sherlock looked into the distance for a moment before nodding slowly. "I hope."

Without another word, he turned and strode for the door.


	4. Chapter Two

Sherlock braced his hands on his knees as he threw up, coughing and retching and spitting up bile.

It wasn't that he was out of shape. That was an assumption that was far from the obvious. He was, in fact, in very good shape. He could run halfway across London without panting for breath. He could fight off trained assassins without breaking a sweat. He'd trained enough with martial arts and during his job that he was very fit, albeit if it wasn't in such a visible way.

But put him in a double-strength PT session and he ended up throwing up the moment that he was dismissed.

He was getting better, of course. The first time that he'd gone through a PT, especially designed for him, he'd thrown up countless times and spent most of the night passed out on Baker Street's stairsteps until Mrs Hudson had almost tripped over him in the morning.

Mycroft had gotten most of it to go through, the application and the enrolment, or re-enrolment... whatever was happening. He didn't know if Mycroft was faking papers that Sherlock had been assigned before or if he was a new recruit, but he was going to be part of John's infantry. The Royal Northumberland Fusiliers... Evil to him who evil thinks.

Sherlock spit and felt around his pockets for a piece of gum- something that he had started to carry quite frequently- and went to go hail a cab.

His legs ached, his arms ached, his whole _body_ was protesting the cruel treatment. He barely dragged himself out of bed in time for training and he'd made the mistake, the first week, to go a couple of days without food. He'd collapsed right in the middle of drill (something he still hated and thought _completely_ pointless for the reason that he was going to Afghanistan for) and woke up to smelling salts and water to the face.

His sergeant was an annoying man. Mycroft had enlisted him. And because of the 'crash course' that Sherlock had opted for, it meant a sort of CIC, with extra-strength PT every day. What would normally take months was going to take weeks. Weeks that Sherlock hadn't wanted to waste on this rubbish but Mycroft had insisted or something. Sherlock was losing track of the details that Mycroft dealt with. All Sherlock knew was that he was joining the army, going through training, in London, specifically for himself, designed for him, that he was going to end up in Camp Bastion, and that he was going to find John.

Sherlock mumbled out _221 Baker Street_ to the cabbie and promptly fell asleep against the window.

* * *

It was almost like a case, once one got used to it. It hurt, it still hurt, and Sherlock began to suspect that it always would hurt, but once he got to Afghanistan, it would be smooth deducing from there.

He was trained with rifles and machine guns, which he had already had experience with and passed the target practices with flying colours. The mortars were a bit different, and he even got his hands on a combat shotgun to practice with at some point. This wasn't the difficult part. Shooting was easy, shooting came naturally to someone who dealt with criminals like they were common friends.

Weapons training was easy and drill got easier. PT _never_ stopped being so physical, but that was rather the point. Fieldcraft was an absolute _breeze_; it was the skill that involved observation and Sherlock took pride in astounding his never-expressive sergeant. Personal administration annoyed him, though; who cared if the uniform was straight or the boots were polished? Had to be one of those pride things or something. Despite all of this training, Sherlock wasn't so much a soldier than a civilian, but a civilian _trying_ to be a soldier for a cause.

But then, that's what all soldiers did, right? Stopped being civilians because they had a _cause_?

Sherlock had the little pleasure of beating his own personal record on the assault course. He let out a exhilarated sigh and shifted his weight, forcing his battered and bruised body to keep standing. He'd been at this long enough to know that sitting down on the job was something that could get you reprimanded, or worse, killed in action. The added burn of a hundred press-ups on already sore limbs did nothing to help, so he kept standing.

He licked blood from his lips and shook the sweat out of his hair like a dog shaking its fur.

"My, my... My little brother has been disciplined and formulated into the likeness of a British soldier."

Sherlock's head snapped up at the voice. "Mycroft."

Mycroft meandered up to him, umbrella tapping each step of the way to mark his progress like a demented pedometer. "I don't think I've ever seen you so well-behaved."

"Piss off. If you had to do a hundred press-ups, you'd have an aneurism." Sherlock studiously did not look towards his sergeant. Said sergeant was there because of Mycroft, any how.

"I'm quite looking forward to getting the results for your final day of training."

Sherlock smiled sardonically. "Oh, well, don't worry, Mycroft. I'll pass with points to spare."

Mycroft smiled frankly. "I'm sure. Tomorrow, isn't it?"

Sherlock nodded curtly. "And after I get through on the physical fitness, can I be deployed?"

"I continue to be astounded at your level of enthusiasm," Mycroft said, scratching at the dirt with the tip of his umbrella idly. "But, yes, everything else has been... arranged."

Sherlock let out a deep breath. "Good. Finally. Are you coming to watch tomorrow?" he asked suspiciously, half afraid of the answer.

"No, sorry. I'll have to miss it. Meeting in Durham."

Sherlock tried not to look too gleeful. "You'll know the results perhaps before I do."

"Of that I have no doubt."

Sherlock clenched his teeth together against a yawn. He looked warily towards his sergeant. This was the one part that Sherlock had most trouble with: accepting orders. Or even having to have someone approve his actions. Someone who told him went to run, when to march, when to stop humming _The British Grenadiers_ under one's breath, when it was acceptable to use the loo, when it was necessary to keep working, when it was _permitted_ to take a water break...

"Dismissed, soldier. Rest up and be here at nineteen thirty hours sharp!"

"Yes..." Sherlock shifted his eyes to Mycroft before looking back to his sergeant. "... Sir."

Sherlock accompanied Mycroft back to the awaiting car and took the water bottle that his brother offered immediately. He drank about half of it without pausing for breath, only resurfacing to cough and splutter from his over-eagerness. He screwed the cap back on the bottle and slumped, feeling boneless, against Mycroft's car seat.

"I know what you're thinking and don't say it," he said shortly, shifting a bit uncomfortably. The uniform was something he would never get used to, compared to his pristine shirt and blazers.

"I'm proud of you, Sherlock."

Sherlock groaned and turned his attention to the window. "Don't be stupid. I'm not a 'real' soldier. These things take months... years... I'm doing this in weeks. I'm not a 'real' soldier."

"The paperwork may be faked, but this isn't."

Sherlock slid down in the seat slightly, almost low enough to rest his chin on the window's perch. "I'm tired, Mycroft. I don't want to have this conversation. Why are you here, anyway? You haven't bothered to collect me before this."

"It's your last day of training."

"Yes, so? Why didn't you pick me up from my testing tomorrow and drive me to the airport?"

Mycroft glanced at him. "You do realise it's not really a test?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I know. It's just more PT stuff, but I have to do a certain amount in a certain time or-" he yawned. "Or something like that. Sit-ups and press-ups and the two mile and..." he trailed off. His eyelids were growing heavy and his body was already preparing to make up for the workout. It wasn't his fault. His transport was used to this. He always slept on the way home from training. "Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"I'm going to fall asleep," Sherlock said bluntly. "I would appreciate it if you don't take annoying pictures of me or leave me somewhere besides Baker Street."

"Brother. Why would I do that?" Mycroft asked, sounding amused.

Sherlock would have rolled his eyes if he had not closed them already.

* * *

Sherlock's back hit the ground hard after the two minute mark on the sit-ups. It wasn't that he _had_ to do sit-ups but the sergeant thought it was necessary, something about his personal regime or some rubbish. So, on top of the static lift, the 'jerry can' test, and the mile and a half run, he was doing sit-ups and press-ups and the beep test. He wasn't sure _why_, but he had a feeling that his sergeant just liked to torture him. Or maybe Mycroft had told him to. Because he knew for a _fact_ that the beep test wasn't part of the soldier's physical fitness requirements.

"Sixty-seven, soldier."

"I can count," Sherlock replied. "Aren't you supposed to be calling me 'Private'?" he asked, a shiver crawling down his spine as sweat ran down his neck.

"You can accept the name of Private when you've accomplished what you're here to do. So far, you've yet to do that."

"Yeah, right," Sherlock muttered, pushing himself back into a sitting position.

"What was that?"

"... Nothing. Sir," Sherlock said begrudgingly, pushing himself to his feet. "I'm ready for the run, sir."

"I didn't ask if you were ready!"

Sherlock bit his tongue- something he'd learned to do a lot in the past few weeks, still something he hated and would completely delete once he had John back- and jogged after the sergeant.

It was on his fifth lap that he noticed that he had an audience.

"Oh... God," he muttered.

If it was one person he had been hoping to avoid goodbyes to, it was Molly Hooper.

He finished his laps at ten minutes, seventeen seconds, and waited for his sergeant to give him leave for a much-needed break. Besides, he had finished the 'training course' or whatever it was.

"Hit the showers, soldier."

Sherlock glanced back the bleachers and beckoned Molly over. It wasn't that he _wanted_ to talk to her... It was just that he was going to have to, so he ought to now rather than later.

"Mycroft... Your brother mentioned that you were leaving later tonight, training permitting," Molly said quietly.

"Yes. I'll be on a plane to Afghanistan sometime later tonight," Sherlock said, striding back towards the locker room. "No, you can come in; it's just me here. Hadn't you noticed the rigorous training isn't _precisely_ what the normal soldiers do?"

"I don't think I should-"

"If you want to talk to me before I leave, you're going to follow me," Sherlock said, pulling the door open and heading back to the showers. Much to his surprise, Molly followed him.

"Are you... I mean- Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder as he pulled his shirt off. Molly's face was beet red. "Molly, do remember that we lived together for an immeasurable amount of time after my faked suicide. You perform post-mortems on men every day."

She muttered something that Sherlock didn't catch, although when she spoke again he could tell that she'd turned her back to him. "Are you sure no one's going to come in here?"

"Unless my sergeant wants to find out how many press-ups I can do while in unfavourable conditions- the shower becoming a rainy day- I sincerely doubt it."

Molly sighed. "I can't believe you're going through with this."

"Oh, don't sound so worried. I'm just going to find John, not really serve my term in war," Sherlock said, folding his uniform on the sink edge and stepping into the shower.

"... People die every day in war, Sherlock."

"Yes," Sherlock allowed, closing his eyes as water cascaded over his body.

"You could be one of those people."

"Please don't be overly sentimental." Sherlock reached for the body wash. "While it is certainly a possibility, I endeavour to stay optimistic. Especially given the situation that has caused all of this fuss."

"Do you think you're going to be able to find John...?"

"Molly," Sherlock started warningly.

It was a moot point, he knew. If John was taken as a POW, for whatever reason, or even if it was as simple as him getting lost, the fact that he had to have been hurt and, well, that had been weeks ago. But he would not think about it... because, like he had said, he would _know_ if John was dead. Somehow... Somehow, he would know.

"Afghanistan is a big place, Sherlock."

"Molly, I am sure that I know more about Afghanistan than you do at this point." He lathered up his hair quickly and rinsed the bubbles away, shaking his hair out afterwards. "Was there something you wanted besides to talk about John and I's chances of returning home?" He turned off the shower and reached for his towel. Molly handed it to him. He took it after a pause. "Thank you."

"Just... just be careful, Sherlock..."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I have little aspirations to do anything else."

"You run towards danger."

Sherlock smirked as he dried off and re-dressed. "Look, Molly. I'll do my best," he said seriously. He hung the towel over the sink. "To not get hurt. But I'm coming back with John..."

"Or you're not coming back at all, right? You don't have to say it. I know it. We all know it, Sherlock. Greg's irate and... you already died once," Molly said in a small voice.

Sherlock sighed heavily. With some trepidation, he placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. To his horror, Molly threw her arms around him.

"Molly..." He held his hands away from her. "Molly..."

Sherlock sighed again and hesitantly patted Molly's back. "... Alright."

"Just be careful," Molly mumbled before turning and striding out of the locker room.

Sherlock stared after her until his mobile buzzed. He glanced at it instead.

_Your plane leaves at one. Congratulations._  
_MH_

Sherlock blinked and looked up from his mobile.

"Private, now's not the time for personal relations!" his sergeant barked into the hallway. "Sex is for your own time; this is _my_ time!"

Sherlock was about to roll his eyes when he noted... _Private_. He perked up considerably.

"Yes, sir; sex is the farthest thing from my mind... Sergeant."

He hurried down the hall, trying not to put any more particular spring in his step than he had had previously.

* * *

**Let me say: I am truly grateful for the soldiers serving today. I do not mean to demoralise the training and hard work that they go through in this story. Yes, Sherlock can get Mycroft to pull some strings, but this is fiction, and I don't mean to insult or injure anyone with said work of fiction. More power to all of those who train and serve. Those people are heroes. :)**

**Secondly, I'm not British, as much as I'd love to be. So I'm trying to piece together what I can find about the British Army to write this story. So, please kindly ignore any errors unless they are HUGE and _glaring_. Trying my best. The British Army is different from the American army, and neither is something I know a lot about. (Yes, I know Sherlock would have to go through a ton more training and at specific places, too. But... Mycroft and Sherlock and fiction. The Holmes Brother can do anything. :p)**

**Still love to hear your thoughts, so keep them coming. :) Thank you.**


	5. Chapter Three

**Note: There is a LOT of description and not a lot of dialogue. It just happened that way. If you want to read all about Sherlock being in war, this chapter's for you. If you want to get on with the 'John's missing' plotline, you can skip to probably about halfway through this chapter without missing anything terribly important. But the end is necessary to read if you plan to read Chapter Four.**

* * *

It was sweltering.

That was the only word he could use to describe it and he _hated_ it. For being someone who rarely broke a sweat when he was running halfway across London, Sherlock _hated_ that Afghanistan was so bloody hot that he spent most of the time sweating.

The worst thing had been the first night on the terrain. Yes, he'd been training and preparing and all of that rubbish, but there was _nothing_ like camping out in the middle of the dirt and dust and hot. No shower, no pillows, no air conditioning. He really should have thought about it and it had never even crossed his mind.

He'd spent the majority of the night surrounded with Privates and Captains and Sergeants alike, staring at the top of their tent, unable to sleep. It was strangely quiet. Sweat had been dripping from his hair, down his face, thoughts a mixture of _how did John do this_ and _what are the scenarios I'm bound to witness_.

It got no better. Maybe it was unseasonably hot, maybe they in the middle of a heat wave. Sherlock didn't know. People passed out just through walking. The most Sherlock got was light-headed, but he was generally better at handling more things than the average person. And he was fine-tuned to when his body needed a drink or, worse, sleep.

The first land mine that had gone off had been a surprise. It killed seven people and put the rest of them in a sombre mood. Left Sherlock wondering how he hadn't noticed a land mine. Wondering if John had been blown up, still alive as the heat and pain encompassed his body as he was torn apart limb by limb.

That was the first time that Sherlock came dangerously close to throwing up and it was about that time that his mind just clicked off. He focussed on their regiment and nothing else. He couldn't think of the alternatives. It was a mistake to theorise without all of the facts.

His aim with the shotgun was remarkable. It took less than fifteen minutes for one of his comrades to notice and then he got the ridiculous nickname of 'Sharp Shooter Sherlock' and it stuck. He didn't honestly care what Donovan or Anderson called him, but 'Sharp Shooter' was far better than 'Freak'.

Still, he _had_ mostly kept his mouth shut. These were his comrades... he _did_ have to rely on them to get to Camp Bastion where he would then break off on his own. He didn't need enemies within his own friends... even if that one guy was sleeping with another man back home or if the young Private had lied about his age to get into service because his parents abused him at home.

"So, what brings you here, Holmes?" a man- a Captain- inquired one night, as they both picked over dinner in the mess.

Sherlock looked up from his vegetable soup. "... The army brought me here. Sir," he tacked on, looking back at his soup. Respect. He kept forgetting. (To be fair, it was a difficult concept for him.)

"Why did you volunteer, is what I'm asking."

Sherlock sighed. "A friend, sir."

"Someone I might know?"

Sherlock glanced sideways at the Captain. He didn't know his name. "Perhaps. Captain John H. Watson?"

The Captain nodded. "John Wat- _oh_. Yeah, I know him. Fusiliers. How is he? I haven't seen much of him lately."

Sherlock's curiosity was thoroughly piqued, since the Captain had said that he had known John. He looked intently at the man- early fifties, three years in the service, two children and a worrisome wife back at home- letting his head fall a few degrees to the right. "He's been MIA for weeks. Sir."

The Captain frowned. "No. He was an all around good bloke. Doctor, right?"

Sherlock assented with a nod.

"He did anything to protect his comrades, Holmes. He ran towards a live grenade just to get two children out of harm's way. Come to think of it, I think that's when he was invalided out... so we heard. I don't know if I was jealous of him or not. He got out... but injured. Of course, that's the most that most of us can hope for."

Sherlock frowned infinitesimally. "No, sir, he wasn't... Well, it was more psychosomatic," he said slowly, picking the words out of his mind palace. He didn't want to share too much about John's life; John's war days had never been a terribly open-minded place for conversation in the Baker Street household and, while Sherlock had deduced enough, they didn't talk about it.

The Captain sighed at that. "Something none of us can escape. You're lucky if you get out of here alive. To have scars is considered nothing. I hope they find him," the Captain continued. "We met up at a base not far from here and talked for a bit. But then we got to Bastion and his troop was there; it was a nice surprise to see a familiar face amongst the new recruits." He looked at Sherlock again. "So, he talked you into enlisting or something?"

Sherlock was once again faced with the task of choosing his words carefully. Breaking away from one's infantry line was probably _not_ smiled upon, but he couldn't stay with them forever if he wanted to find John. The last place John had been had been was Bastion and then Sherlock had been able to trace the line of the infantry to the east, where they had reported an attack... Sherlock was going to go there and go _from_ there.

"I was hoping to find him, sir," he said simply.

True and yet not totally true. Little did these soldiers know what Sherlock would do for his blogger.

The Captain nodded. "I hope you do, Private. I hope you do."

Sherlock nodded awkwardly before getting to his feet. The man might know John but he certainly didn't know where he was or where he had been. They weren't even part of the same regiment, but they were at the same military base. Somehow, this Captain had known John... but it didn't matter, not really.

Sherlock sighed and returned to his room, curling up in his respective bunk after a quick shower. The mattress was well-worn, fifteen years old, and the blankets were thin polyester. They were terrible accommodations for people who were putting their lives on the line, but Sherlock didn't make the comment. He didn't have to; everybody was thinking it. But mostly everyone here could find at least one thing to complain about, whether it was lack of food or injuries or missing their families. Sherlock just kept his mouth shut.

Three days later found them in an attack at a bunker. Sherlock cursed as his hearing was blasted away by an explosion nearby and then winced when a bullet sent up a mushroom cloud of dust and dirt not two feet away from him. He dove for cover and shook his head wildly, trying to stop his ears ringing even though he knew it wouldn't help. Another bullet whizzed by nearby and Sherlock twisted around, peering out from his cover long enough to take out the shooter that seemed to be fixated on him. And then he was focussed on swapping out a new round of ammo through the dust and smoke and he decided that this war business was absolutely, no doubt, the pits.

He didn't believe in world peace and all that rubbish, no. It was improbable. Someone would always have a problem with someone else; it was inevitable. But this was... this was hell. It was horrible, terrible, inhumane. He'd rolled his eyes at John for being so dedicated to Queen and Country, but... he wasn't sure if he'd do that now. He didn't know. He wanted to say that war wouldn't change him but he knew it would.

It changed everyone, he thought, as he lay in 'bed' later that night, arms over his eyes and his ears still ringing from the explosions and gunshots.

They made it to Camp Bastion two days later and Sherlock had never been more happy to see civilisation that wasn't intent on killing him.

It wasn't enough to make him swear off of deducing everyone and insulting their lack of intelligence outside of the war, nothing ever was, because everyone was still an idiot compared to him. Priorities just changed a bit here because intelligence couldn't help much. Everyone was fighting for one goal and even deducing the enemy's life couldn't help when you couldn't get close enough without getting shot.

But the promise of a hot shower, proper toilets, and pasta with alfredo sauce, peas, broccoli, and carrots was good, even Sherlock had to admit. Even a pillow was inviting and he fell asleep immediately after his head hit said pillow that night.

He woke up early. He had satisfying breakfast of whole grain waffles and eggs.

And then, when no one was looking, Sherlock gathered up his things and left.

Sneaking out of Bastion was more difficult than Sherlock thought it would be. Something was telling him to stay but if he did, the whole point of this mission was null and void. Another part of his mind said he was useless on his own in a fight and the other part said it didn't matter without John.

A few days later found John's identification tags in the dust. Sherlock's hope was renewed with the find (a minor miracle, he was aware) but he kept deducing: the scuffing of the dirt signified enemy troops, patterns of the sand showed northeast movement, hackles signified prisoners of war.

It took awhile, a few more days on their already precious count, before Sherlock found himself hiding outside what seemed to be a perfectly normal house. It seemed... logical, he supposed, that John had been taken here; it was the closest place that Sherlock had tracked the evidence to. Plus, there was something distinctive. It may just be normal, but... Something about this house. Something. No one else would notice; it was only one of those things that he would notice. It was John. Sherlock just _knew_. (What was _wrong_ with him?)

So, then, Sherlock did what any sensible consulting detective would do: he walked right into danger.

Sort of. He just kind of fired a few shots towards the building, just towards the ground so he wouldn't actually kill anyone _in_ the building.

The reaction was instantaneous.

He was yelled at and bombarded with questions- he studiously said nothing- as he was subjected to a strip search and various weapons pointed at him, threatening him, the usual hostage sort of scenario. He'd been here before, not necessarily in a war situation, but a hostage nonetheless. He didn't really hear much. Felt a bit, what with the kicking and hitting and attacks with the blunt parts of the weapons, as he was shoved.

He didn't have to deduce. This part was easy. John was a captive. Now he was a captive. It was that simple.

Still, it didn't _quite_ protect him from the shock of finding John, bloodied and beaten, unconscious, in a basement area that was literally man-made cells. It must have been an actual room before, but now it was like a prison. He didn't give his captors the satisfaction of sound nor the hint of knowing his best friend was in the next cell over, just stumbled into the dirt-floor cell and leaned back against the wall, silently, until everyone had left. They'd be back for him. No doubt.

No matter.

Sherlock turned to the cell next to him, gripping the crudely made bars tightly. "John..." he hissed. "John, wake up!"

John didn't open his eyes.

Sherlock stared intently for a few moments to reassure himself that, yes, his doctor was in fact still breathing. When he had ascertained that he was still alive, he sat down on his knees and waited. He would wait until John woke up for however long it took. He was going to be here when he woke up, he would be the first thing he saw when he woke up, because, after all this time, Sherlock thought that if John deserved anything in the world right now...

It was his best friend, dirty and beaten, but his best friend alive, nonetheless.

* * *

**I doubt it's actually possible to sneak out of a military base but this is fiction and he is Sherlock Holmes. ****Also, my lovely 'beta' for this, storylover18, kindly informed me that Sherlock would have had to have a haircut. This is a detail that I am wilfully glossing over; cutting off Sherlock's locks, even in fiction, is not something I want to entertain. No disrespect at ALL meant to military bases security/soldiers/anything intended, as usual. (It's for plot, after all.)**

**So... the plot (like Raj's gravy) thickens. [lolsorry BBT reference]**

**Don't own _Sherlock_. (Although I am happy/sad about the update to John's blog :D) I love your reviews and your support. Thank you!**


	6. Chapter Four

The first thing that John did was throw up.

Sherlock winced and leaned away from the bars separating their cells, watching emotionlessly as John repeatedly retched, choking on spit and bile.

He wasn't sure what he had expected. John had been living for the past three years under the false pretence that Sherlock was dead. Sherlock hadn't expected him to take to it right away but he wasn't sure that he had expected him to throw up.

"John," he said quietly, licking his lips.

He had a spectacularly bloody lip. It was split in at least two places, but that was the least of his worries. His captors had come back, taken him to another room and shouted more abuse at him. Sherlock toyed with the idea of speaking a different language back to them to signify that he didn't understand, but he was dressed in the typical British garb. Had been dressed, anyway. He didn't know where his uniform had gone to, not that he particularly lamented the loss. Right now, all he had was a blanket in his cell. He was neither here nor there on the topic of using it to cover up- he had no inhibitions about his body and military mostly squelched all senses of privacy one had- but it was better than sleeping on the dirt when he had actually had to sleep. Thus far, he hadn't permitted himself to close his eyes.

No, he had determined that he was going to sit at the side of the cell and wait for John to wake up and tell him that he was fine. For John to wake up so Sherlock could tell him that he was fine. And then, he finally had and-

"... John," he tried again, flicking his gaze to the door of the room.

No one was ever in the room with them unless they wanted something, but there was always someone at the top of the stairs, behind the door. The basement had no windows and nothing of value that could be used for an attack. They didn't bother with supervision when there was no good way for escape except past them. Sherlock _had_ been looking for an escape.

"... We're dead..." John muttered, voice rasping from the vomiting spree.

Sherlock frowned. "Of course we're not."

"... You're dead... so I..." John trailed off.

Sherlock could see the man literally starting to shake. It was not comforting. This was another moment that Sherlock had grossly misjudged on how it would play out. He thought John would be angry, maybe, or... surprised. Ultimately happy. Not in denial.

"Listen," Sherlock murmured, leaning closer to the bars again. "You're fine. I'm fine. I was never dead, John."

John shook his head a bit wildly. Sherlock tried to think back to reassess how many days John had been kept here.

"You are not dead," Sherlock said sternly. "You are still living and breathing... I admit that it's not the best of circumstances, but you're not dead yet."

John rubbed the back of his shaking hand against his mouth, huddling back against the wall. He hugged his knees to his chest and stared towards a point that Sherlock couldn't find.

"John."

"... Dreaming," John mumbled.

"What?"

"I'm dreaming..." John whispered. "Just like I used to."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Dreaming?"

"... Dreaming... you..."

Dreaming you up was the unspoken thought. Sherlock, however, had an out for this particular scenario. Giving John one of his driest looks, he asked:

"And how many times have I been naked in your dreams?"

Sherlock had the pleasure of watching John's cheeks tint slightly, only slightly, under the coat of dirt and grime. He shifted his weight a bit uncomfortably- sitting on his knees was slightly uncomfortable although preferably to having clods of dirt in places he didn't mind for- and flashed John a sarcastic smile. "Have we established this this is, in fact, not a dream?"

John muttered something that was lost even between the short distance between them.

"What was that?" Sherlock said.

"... Hallucinating."

Sherlock, having expected this as the next tone of conversation, put his hand through the bars, holding it out to John. "Take my hand," he said, with the slightest of smirks as he mirrored the words from that fateful day far too long ago.

John simply stared at it for a good, long while before hesitantly reaching out and prodding at it like it was about to bite him. Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed John's hand, curling his fingers around John's.

"John. I. Am. Alive," he said, enunciating each word. He squeezed John's fingers pointedly.

When he looked up again, John was crying.

Tears were not something that Sherlock had grown accustomed to. Something that he would never grow accustomed to, if he were honest, because he just didn't have time for such things. He wouldn't lie- he'd cried before, on few, sparing occasions- but he hated the whole process of it.  
Sherlock swallowed and waited nervously. When had he succumbed to such things as nerves and uncomfortableness? Somewhere, somewhere in between meeting John and leaving John, and finding John again... he had become more human. John had made him more human.

... It was _disgusting_.

There was a clack of the door opening and Sherlock jerked his hand away from John as though he'd been electrocuted. He cast a sideways glance at John, mentally communicating to him to stay silent, and looked back towards the stairs with an impassive face.

* * *

Two cracked ribs and a building infection that wouldn't go away without proper antibiotics.

That was the self diagnosis after the latest round of abuse that their captors had put him through. He'd been somewhere, separate from the others, tied up and counting the seconds. He'd gotten to the thought that he'd been there for three days when he noted with some interest that he had a fever and it wasn't long after that that he was unceremoniously thrown back into his cell.

It wasn't his fault. Okay, maybe it was a bit. But he had nothing to say so he wasn't going to talk. He only wanted to talk to John, or Mycroft, but neither of those were really great options at the moment. At least talking to John was possible, though.

He collapsed in a heap of bruising limbs and bleeding scrapes onto the blanket. Despite his best interests to stay awake, it wasn't in his body's mental state to make the demand. He coughed slightly into his arm and curled up the best he could, shivering.

The silence was unnerving, but not wholly uncomfortable as he wasn't conscious enough to experience it. He was just about to doze off when

"... Sherlock...?"

Sherlock pried his heavy eyelids up, wondering if he was the one hallucinating now. But then, again

"Sherlock."

Sherlock licked blood off his lips and tilted his head enough to look to the cell next to him. John was leaning precariously close to the separating bars, his wary gaze watching Sherlock.

Sherlock offered a weak smile and closed his eyes again.

"Sherlock," John hissed.

Sherlock's lips moved without his eyes doing the same. "What...?"

"... You're..."

"Alive, yes," Sherlock mumbled.

"Sweating," John said.

Sherlock forced his eyes open again. "... Really?" he mumbled. "I've taken a beating and you say I'm sweating...?"

"... If you're shivering and sweating, you have an infection... fever," John mumbled.

"I am aware," Sherlock murmured.

"... You... You should stay warm..." John murmured. "Cover up with the blanket."

It seemed too much of a hassle, but Sherlock shuffled until he was half laying on the blanket, half covered by the blanket. "... Happy?" he mumbled. "Bloody doctors," he said, lips curving into a half-hearted smile.

He thought that John said something else, but he didn't hear it. His pulse was still pounding in his ears and the fever was thrumming throughout his body. Unconsciousness was bliss and he was helpless to resist it.

* * *

When he woke up again, someone's hand was on his forehead.

With all of the quick reflexes of a soldier braced for attack, Sherlock startled awake and grabbed the hand grabbing at him, twisting it back at the wrist.

"Ow!"

The exclamation cut through his fever and sleep fogged senses and he focussed, noting that John's hand had been the one he'd just grabbed. "Oh! John," he murmured, letting go of John's hand. "Sorry. I thought... never mind. Are you okay?"

John looked at him intently. He seemed to have wiped some of the grime away from his face during the time that Sherlock had been unconscious and his eyes were a little brighter.

Sherlock took this as a good sign.

"You still have a fever," John said, leaning against the bars. "Infection. Probably from one of those gashes," he muttered, eyes flitting to a particularly nasty one that was oozing on his shoulder.

Sherlock pulled the blanket up over his shoulders. Now he was self-conscious, simply because John was going to go 'doctor' on him. "I'll be fine as long as we get out of here soon. You've accepted that I'm real, then?"

John was quiet for a minute before sighing heavily. "I don't know if you're real or fake but it beats being alone. Although I'm probably talking to myself and everybody here thinks I'm a nutter..." He laughed briefly, only the slightest ghost of something that Sherlock used to know. "But I've never quite had a hallucination quite like this..."

Sherlock looked away from John and flicked his gaze around the basement again. "It's going to get better. Our imminent and daring escape will begin shortly," Sherlock said.

Not that he felt particularly up to an imminent and daring escape, but he could only get back to London one of two ways: breaking out of the military base (not preferable in his state) or relying on Mycroft to get them out.

"Another one?" John murmured. He raised his voice. "How did you fake it? And how in the hell did you get to Afghanistan?"

Sherlock couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his lips at that. The incredulity was amazing. If anyone could fake their own death and get to Afghanistan to save his best friend, it _was_ Sherlock Holmes. Why was John so surprised?

The next few hours where spent in whispered conversations through cell bars. Sherlock leaned against John's shoulder, respectively, through the bars, and John leaned on his. Whenever someone else came to the basement, they retreated as if they didn't know each other. They were acting like two secret lovers, Romeo and Juliet, one of the other captors mentioned. John choked and Sherlock took great delight in watching him as he coughed and spluttered for air, red in the face for lack of oxygen and embarrassment.

Things would have been perfect... had they been back at Baker Street, of course. Sherlock would have killed for a shower and some morphine at this point, but he had better things to think about first.

"Mycroft should be able to get us out of here soon," Sherlock mumbled.

He was leaning back against John's shoulder though the bars, feeling sluggish. It was some time late at night, everyone was asleep- not counting the one or two that always took the night watch- and he was tired. He wouldn't have been but his body, ravaged by infection, was making demands that he didn't care for.

"How?" John asked.

"He knows we're here."

"How?" John asked again.

Sherlock beckoned John closed and whispered- simply for the sake of no one else needed to hear it- "Mycroft has a tag on me".

John frowned. "How does he... You've got nothing on."

"Nanotechnology is superb, John."

John's face was one of confusion.

Sherlock smiled and flicked his gaze to the door. He spit onto his hand- which prompted a "_What are you doing?_" from John- and scrubbed a bit of the dirt off his arm. He leaned impossibly heavier against the cell bars and felt around his arm for a moment. "Give me your hand."

"What?"

"Give me your hand," he retorted, grabbing John's hand.

"Thanks for the saliva," John muttered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pressed John's fingers against spot on his arm. "There."

John gave him a look that clearly said _nutter_ before he pressed his fingers down on the spot specified. The look turned to one of confusion again, and then a full-blown frown. "... Is that an implant?" he whispered.

Sherlock smiled wryly. "Subcutaneous global-positioning device."

"... That's not even real, is it?"

Sherlock took his arm back. "Well, they've been testing out a new model for the past few years and Mycroft pulled a few strings... We did a test run while I was in training and it matched my movements well enough to know where I was so I decided to go with it. Of course, there's no guarantee that it has been working..." he said slowly. "But, given my research, I would assume that it has been."

"So... You're telling me that we could be sitting ducks."

"It's possible," Sherlock replied.

"That... really helps my confidence level, Sherlock."

"Hey, I found you!" Sherlock retorted. "Be happy that you've got someone to talk to now!"

"I had people to talk to."

John's voice was blunt, but Sherlock heard humour behind it. He was... teasing him? Seemed unlikely for the circumstances but also very probable from the tone of voice.

Sherlock gave a hesitant smile in return. "Yes, but they weren't me."

"No..." John murmured, pressing his shoulder more firmly against Sherlock's shoulder. (It hurt but Sherlock didn't wince.) "They weren't you."

The swell of warmth was unexplainable but not uncommon for being around John. Sherlock couldn't explain it and he didn't think he would be able to... Well, he could explain it as 'friendship', but even that was foreign enough concept to him.

"Get some sleep," he said.

Of course, they were going to have to separate, to return to their façade of not knowing each other, but, for now, this, Sherlock thought, was a bit very good indeed.

* * *

**Technology that doesn't yet exist is the amazing saviour in fiction. Actually, there has been a few cases of people using 'GPS' tracking implants (illegally) in humans. Plus, this story is set in roughly 2015, so who knows what the world will be like then. And Mycroft can do anything. ;) Blame _Star Trek_ and _The Last Enemy_ for the inspiration of the idea.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Would love to hear your comments and, as usual, thank you!**


	7. Chapter Five

It was neither of their faults, and yet, both of their faults.

Sherlock withheld a wince as his arms were twisted further, unnaturally, behind his back. His pain threshold was better than most people's so he had no inclination to give vocalisation to pain _or_ answering the questions thrown at him.

Instead, he kept his eyes locked on John, who was approximately eleven feet away, in the same position Sherlock was in. Arms twisted behind his back, a knife to John's throat that wasn't at Sherlock's.

They'd been found out. They'd fallen asleep. It was probably mostly Sherlock's fault; he wasn't supposed to sleep when John was leaning against him. The fact that John had fallen asleep with his fingers still looped around Sherlock's wrist sort of signified a bond, but he had only been monitoring his pulse because of the infection. And because of the infection, Sherlock had fallen asleep before moving away. But he never wanted to take fault, so he wasn't going to say anything now, either.

Sherlock sighed quietly. He knew what was going to happen before it happened. Back to what he had dubbed the torture chamber, even if it wasn't one, they would be chained up, and most likely, forced to watch each other being hurt. It was a useless tactic to use against Sherlock... He wouldn't deny- couldn't deny- that he worried about John but he would _never_ outwardly panic like ordinary people did. It was not in his repertoire.

When their captors got words neither out of Sherlock or John, they were chained up, trussed to the wall. Sherlock leaned back against the wall as much as he could, sighing as the muscles in his arms screamed at the lack of movement allowed.

"... This could be better," he allowed.

John sighed. "So, you're admitting that you've done something a bit not good?"

"Don't go that far," Sherlock said, allowing a smile to flicker across his lips. "I just said it could be better. This is uncomfortable." He subtly stretched his back the best that he could, hearing it pop and crack in the otherwise silent room. "Oh... I would _kill_ for a shower," he muttered, thumping his head back against the wall. "Or a bathroom in general. I never thought I'd miss _toothpaste_," he muttered.

John laughed to himself.

"It's not funny," Sherlock muttered. "I'm tired of using the wall as a urinal. I want pillows. I miss Mrs Hudson's scones."

"You learn the appreciate the small things when you don't have them anymore..." John murmured. "You are living the life of a soldier. It isn't pretty... or easy."

"But it is rewarding when you accomplish what you set out to do," Sherlock said quietly.

John looked at him across the room and Sherlock looked back at him calmly. John didn't smile and neither did he, but, God, he _longed _to be back at Baker Street.

Sherlock puffed out a breath and rest his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.

* * *

Sherlock was nearly unconscious when he heard the curse that slipped from between John's lips.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "John?"

John was hunched over, to the best that the chains allowed, in any case, horribly pale under the gray-blonde hair dirtied by lack of sanitation.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock pried.

John coughed. "I can't... breathe... well, not very well."

Sherlock leaned forward slightly. "I need more explanation than that. Did they get you in the ribs?"

John nodded slightly.

"Punctured lung?" Sherlock asked quickly.

"Not sure..."

"Trouble breathing or pain with breathing?" He was too far away to tell on his own.

"Both."

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "Possibly punctured lung. Probable rib fracture, maybe breakage..."

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock swept his gaze back to John's face. "Yes?"

"Stop deducing."

Sherlock fell into silence, watching John lean back against the wall again. He had a terrible bruising pattern over his left eye and several scratches oozing blood.

Damn it, where was Mycroft? Why was it taking him so long; he'd been there for days. Lost track of time, actually, lost track of the days but it couldn't have been less than five days nor more than fourteen. Mycroft should have sent support by now. He got more and more slow as the days went on, and now, when it mattered, he was taking his time as usual.

Sherlock winced and threw up without any warning.

When he looked up again, John was watching him critically.

"My stomach's been upset for days," Sherlock said, trying to throw it off.

In reality, it wasn't just his stomach. His head was constantly pounding, skin crawling with shudders and sweat, his stomach was churning, he was exhausted, and he was pretty sure that the black spots that he commonly had to blink away harshly from his vision were no good. He was dizzy to stand and even more nauseous to walk, but sitting still make him anxious and sleep only came when he was too weak to stay awake. He felt cold all over, but he was aware of the heat deep in his body, signals that his temperature was far warmer than it should be.

But, he was a good actor. He was doing his best to keep all of these symptoms under wraps. The vomiting was something that he couldn't hide, though. The only good thing about that was that they were fed so little that he rarely had anything to vomit up except bile.

"You need medication," John said quietly.

"_You_ need medication," Sherlock retorted. "I'll be fine."

"You have an infection."

"I do, but it's nothing that antibiotics can't cure."

"If we don't die first."

"We won't."

"How do you know that?"

"Because, although I have no reason to, I still believe that my brother will pull through and get people here to get us out."

"When? At what cost? Starting another war? Finding us after we're dead?"

"What do you want me to do, John? I'm stuck here just as well as you are."

"Couldn't you have, I don't know, thought of a better plan?"

"I didn't see you coming up with any alternatives."

"I've been trapped in a cell!"

"Well, I've been fighting your war."

"I fought _your_ war while you were gone for three years!"

"You weren't fighting a war."

"Everyone thought that you were dead and a fake-"

"I wanted them to believe that."

"- and _I_ was the only one who ever tried to say that you were made to jump. Me and handful of people that you managed not to piss off enough that they still cared for you."

"No one told you to. I told you to tell everyone I was just make belief."

"I wasn't going to tell the world that my best friend was a fraud!"

"Then don't complain to me about the problems that you caused for yourself."

"_You_ caused all of this! _All_ of it, Sherlock. We wouldn't even be here if you hadn't faked your death and ruined my life!"

Sherlock exhaled heavily through his nose, leaning back against the wall. John's shouting was hurting his head and he didn't care to hear something that he had constantly told himself while he had been away.

"They want to break us," Sherlock said quietly.

John didn't answer, so Sherlock continued.

"They want us to start fighting... They want to break us down until we're broken and beaten... turn us against each other..."

John sighed, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I know."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Mycroft'll be here soon. And if not... we'll both probably be dead soon. So, either way, we shouldn't have to deal with it much longer."

John sighed again. "Comforting."

Sherlock smiled, almost briefly, but fell into an only semi-comfortable silence.

* * *

They both woke up to gunshots.

Sherlock jolted awake and tried to bound to his feet, forgetting where he was and what was happening. The cuffs around his wrists jerked him back and the first groan to make his pain audible slipped from between his lips.

"John?"

It was pitch black and he couldn't even see John across the room, but he heard his quickened breathing through the silence that was only punctuated by gunshots.

"What's going on?" John asked, not bothering to whisper.

"Attack on their base?"

"Or are _they_ attacking someone else?"

Sherlock stifled a groan as the gunshots continued. Infection or not, he was predispositioned to run towards gunshots, not sit still and ignore them. He wanted to be in the thick of the action, not stuck wherever they were in the dusty darkness. It was almost literally painful.

"Maybe it's Mycroft."

"Do you think?"

"I hope," Sherlock said, trying to work his shoulder. He was positive that it was dislocated. "We've been here long enough for him to send the whole British army."

"_I've_ been here long enough for him to send the whole of bloody London," John muttered.

"It could be another band of-"

"Let's not think that it's someone even worse than the people here already."

Sherlock fell into silence, eyes directed towards the ceiling. He was deducing everyone's movements, sluggishly, but he stiffened when he heard someone near the door. He almost whispered at John to prepare himself, but then, _what are you going to prepare yourself _for_?_ whispered a voice in his head. They couldn't go anywhere, even if they wanted to. So, Sherlock just stayed quiet.

The lights clicked on and Sherlock winced, heard John's exclamation of surprise. He blinked hard to get the afterimage out of his eyes and looked towards the door.

A smile fell onto his lips, only to be replaced by his usual impassive façade.

"The Calvary has come," he said, leaning back against the wall heavily. He sighed and found that his shiver had suddenly redoubled. "We're going back to London, John. Back to Baker Street. Back to normal. Just you and I, against the rest of the world."

And, as the troops (real troops or just Mycroft's cronies, Sherlock wondered) worked the handcuffs and the chains off of them, John grinned at him across the room and Sherlock responded in kind.

Baker Street with John and a steaming cup of tea was awaiting him and he was more than eager to get back home.

* * *

**Okay, so, now everybody knows that the BBC!verse canon is that Sherlock's been away for two years, but I didn't know that when I started writing this, so this timeline will continue to be three years. =p And yes, I worked a Series Three quote in, too. ;) ****And now it'll be life after war... although it's not going to be ****_totally _back to normal like Sherlock thinks. **

**I don't own _Sherlock_, but I do love your reviews! Thank you! **


	8. Chapter Six

Sherlock's desire to return to London was bowled over by the fact that they had to stop for such things inane as 'medical care'.

If it were up to him, he would have slept on the plane back to Britain and that would have helped until he could have gotten antibiotics lined up through Mycroft, but the Calvary, as it were, had taken them immediately to an Afghan hospital.

Sherlock had a thirty-nine point eight fever, the intensity of which surprised him when he didn't have a capture and an escape to worry about. He hated the idea of hospital and doctor care, unless it was John doing the doctoring and even then it was only touch and go, but he had to admit, once he got in hospital, he had no immediate desire to leave. He was given medication- although no morphine, but how did this hospital know that?- and he dozed off.

He also had a concussion and they had had to pop his shoulder back into his place. The former was just annoying and the latter _always_ hurt. The infection was obvious and they had given him the necessary antibiotics. He briefly wondered if Afghan hospitals were always like this or if Mycroft had purposefully had things sent over. He didn't know... and he wasn't sure that he cared, to be honest.

The gashes were given stitches, mostly while he was unconscious, he thought. He had two cracked ribs and one broken one. He was severely dehydrated and malnourished. He didn't even have time to be mortified when they set up a drip and other accommodating lines.

John did, after all, have a punctured lung. He had three broken ribs, one of which had caused the punctured lung as deduced. He had a black eye and a spectacularly broken nose. He had more wounds than Sherlock that required stitches and a sprained ankle in addition.

He also had a concussion and an infection, the malnutrition and dehydration in a state worse than Sherlock's. He was set up with his own round of antibiotics to fight the infection and the same lines as Sherlock to get some proper nutrients back into his body.

They both mostly slept. Or, well, Sherlock slept and he assumed that John did the same in the meantime.

Sherlock slept for almost three days straight. When he woke up, some the machines and equipment that had been hooked up to him was gone, but some new had been added. Or maybe the catheter had been there all along, but he hadn't even been aware of needing the toilet, so this was the first time that he noticed. He had a bit of a row with the orderly on call to take the catheter out; it was fruitless labour but he argued up until the moment that his body betrayed him. When that argument was less pressing, he simply jumped tack and went to a different row: he wanted to see John. He was denied this, too, and lost the argument by way of a sleeping agent inserted into the IV drip. He drifted off again and slept until the next day.

Day Four in the hospital assured the catheter was taken out, mostly because Sherlock threatened to remove it himself. The drip stayed, for now, but Sherlock was permitted to limp his way down the hallway to the bathroom- he _vehemently_ refused to use the portable toilet in the room- with the IV on a wheeled pole and an orderly at his side.

He got to see John, who was only in and out of consciousness at this point. Unlike Sherlock, John didn't fuss about IV lines or catheters, making him a model patient, but Sherlock didn't care about all of that. He just wanted to stay by John and make sure that he was going to be okay.

Unfortunately for him, he was still recovering from infection himself. He had to stop to sleep every so often and, thus, their flight back to London was delayed even longer.

By design of John's punctured lung and the treatment option for it, air travel wasn't allowed for a week after they arrived at the hospital.

By the end of that week, Sherlock was practically going stir crazy. He'd ditched the hospital bed for a chair next to John's bed and he'd eventually removed the IV in favour of easier movement. He didn't _ask_ to use the loo and he certainly wasn't escorted, and he had even gone to the cafeteria to manage some horrible food. He would have taken army base food over that slop and he told John as much. John just laughed at him wearily and curled up under the thin blankets.

The end of the week brought flight details and Sherlock had never been happier to set foot on one of Mycroft's jets. He flopped back in the seat, kicked it into recline, and shoved the pillow under his head to get some sleep on the flight home. They'd have serious jet lag in any case, he knew, but there was nothing else to do on a flight. Even the internet couldn't distract him from what he wanted right now and that was his own bed and a hot breakfast.

They bypassed Mycroft's instructions to visit as soon as they got home and went directly to Baker Street. John didn't say anything, but Sherlock had been adamant... not that he expected John wanted to go see Mycroft when he could go back home for the first time in weeks.

Sherlock pushed the car door open, gazing up at 221. John pretty much did the same thing, eyes flashing over the building as he closed the car door.

Sherlock joined him on the sidewalk, hands shoved deep in his pockets. (Mycroft had sent it over, along with the maroon dressing gown for recovery.) "God," he said quietly. "Baker Street has never been so welcoming."

John laughed shakily. "You're telling me."

Sherlock cast a sidelong glance at John. His flatmate was shaking slightly, and probably not because of cold or illness.

"I never thought I'd come back," John whispered. He took a deep breath and pressed his hand against his eyes.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well, come on. This is stupid. I want to go in, not stand outside." With that, he strode forward and fished his keys out of his pocket, out from the prescription bottles he was carrying, and unlocked the door.

They avoided Mrs Hudson by staying quiet. John said it was rude in retrospect but Sherlock didn't care. He didn't know what to do first. He settled on going back to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He hadn't even taken his coat.

"Did... did you just brush your teeth?" John asked, when Sherlock returned to the sitting room.

"Yes," Sherlock said bluntly, pulling his coat off and hanging it on the door. "Go brush yours and then ask me that question again."

John did, and claimed the shower for himself after that, too. Sherlock waited as patiently as he could, which wasn't much, but still bounded back into the bathroom for his own shower the moment that a dressing-gown clad John had walked out.

A shower, body wash, and his ten pound valued shampoo sincerely helped to recapture the essence of his being, of Baker Street's bathroom as a whole, and he padded, bare foot and with only a towel, to his bedroom for a t-shirt and pyjama pants, with his usual dressing gown. The old, soft fabric of his grey shirt and the catch of the worn cotton against his legs from his favourite pyjamas made him hum in contentedness. Adding the dressing gown was bliss; the silk glided effortlessly over his clothes and Sherlock drew it close, walking the familiar path into the kitchen.

John had already boiled the kettle and brewed a pot of tea. Sherlock poured himself a mug- Earl Grey- and went back to the sitting room with John. Ignoring their usual personal boundaries, he flopped onto the sofa right next to John and kicked his feet up on the coffee table.

"... This is good," John commented shortly, nodding to the tea.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. There was no food here when I got back so I had to brave the queue at Tesco."

John smiled faintly. "... I moved out after you died... well, after I thought you died."

"I did realise," Sherlock said, taking a drink of his tea.

"I took the liberty of knicking one of your dressing gowns," John continued.

"I noticed that, too," Sherlock said, barely sparing the tartan gown a second glance. "We'll have to get your things brought back."

"... That sounds nice," John murmured, staring into the mug of tea.

"It does," Sherlock agreed. "It's good to be back and it's good to have you back."

John looked up at him impassively for a moment before nodding. "Yeah... Yeah, that's right. I've missed this..."

Sherlock didn't know if he meant he missed Baker Street or Sherlock himself, but Sherlock decided to take it as a whole.

"So have I," he echoed, taking another drink of his tea.

* * *

Sherlock trudged back into his bedroom wearily. He'd been half asleep on the sofa, both him and John, and he would have been content to stay there if it wouldn't have been for John having to get up to use the loo. Sherlock had grumbled for a few moments before he decided that his bed was more inviting that the sofa, anyway. He collapsed, face first, onto his bed. He didn't bother to rearrange himself and barely managed to pull his legs onto the mattress. He was asleep from the moment that he pulled the pillow down and flopped his head onto it.

He slept like a baby, until about ten in the morning. He set about his morning routine- John wasn't awake yet- of tea, toast, shower, teeth, clothes, phone, and website. He then flopped himself on the sofa, turned on the telly to the news, and grabbed the newspaper off the table. There was a sticky note stuck to it.

_I want to see you boys when you wake up!_  
_xx Mrs Hudson_

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flipped the paper open, ruffling its pages as he did.

The day was strangely exhausting, checking in with Mycroft and Greg and Molly and Mrs Hudson, so when Sherlock fell into bed that night, it was another episode of falling asleep the moment that he crawled under the duvet.

It was all to his surprise when he woke up at three in the morning with a start, drenched from head to toe with sweat and his heart racing from the dreams of gunshots and bombs.

He sucked in a deep breath and shivered violently, feeling chilled and sick to his stomach. He pushed his sweaty hair out of his face and fought the blankets away. He was tangled up and felt the strange feeling of overwhelming panic overtaking his mind for a brief moment before he kicked the blankets to the floor with a low _thump_.

Sighing thinly, he stumbled into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He went immediately to the sink and cupped his hands under the tap. He splashed cold water onto his face and straightened up, sighing again.

A glance in the mirror told him what he thought: he looked horrible. He was horribly pale, forehead and neck shining with sweat. His eyes were bright with hectic light, memories of the war and remnants of his dreams shimmering beneath the surface. He was shaking infinitesimally and he still felt sick to his stomach.

He never had nightmares, not really. Not like this, not ones that made him react so visibly.

He let out another breath and pressing his shaking fingers against his eyes. He turned away from the mirror and decided to have a shower.

The hot water did very little to help and he simply stood under the hot shower stream, arms wrapped around himself as he struggled to stop shaking.

* * *

**Sherlock thought that things were going to go back to normal. He was so wrong.**

**I do not own the Lockinator. I don't even own the Watsonator. :p Thank you for your feedback!**


	9. Chapter Seven

The climax of his nightmares came by design of too much caffeine.

Approximately five days had gone by since they had gotten home. Sherlock's nightmares didn't edge off, so he did what any normal person would do: tried to keep himself awake as long as humanly possible.

It lasted approximately three and a half days, far off his usual record due to the beating he'd taken in Afghanistan, before he dozed in and out of consciousness on the sofa. He managed on a few hours of sleep for another day and a half... by the night-time of which he crawled into bed and fell asleep without remembering the cups of coffee he'd been throwing back during the day.

He woke up from a horrible nightmare, where not only his entire troop was blown to pieces, John was too, drenched in not only sweat, but his own urine as well. His initial reaction was cursing the coffee and the tea and his bladder and his body for falling asleep. His second, more pertinent thought, was that this was not getting any better.

Sherlock stared at the ceiling blankly for a few moments, until it was too cold and clammy and uncomfortable to stay put any longer. He stripped the sheets, stripped his clothes, and shivered as he gathered all of the soiled linens to take down to the wash.

He refused to say that he had post-traumatic stress disorder. He'd seen things all his life that were disturbing and he'd certainly never, with a cringe, wet the bed over them. John had had nightmares of such calibre, before moving in with Sherlock, Sherlock had deduced without saying, but John had been _shot_. It was a bit different.

His plan of attack was to... What was his plan of attack? Cut back on his liquid intake? That would certainly help the nocturnal enuresis, but the point of all of the tea and coffee had been to keep himself awake. Sleeping agents could help, too, but, in the process, make the bedwetting worse. Ideally, not worrying and getting over his 'psychosomatic distress' would be the best options, but those didn't seem entirely likely.

With a sigh, Sherlock left his bedroom and headed down the hall, sodden blankets and clothes in his arms. He very nearly tripped over one of the wet corners of the sheet dragging on the floor and he cursed aloud, twisting to pick up the sheet.

When he turned back around, he nearly walked smack-bang into John.

Sherlock started at first before a rush of, what was it, exactly? Shame? Embarrassment? Surprise? None of those particularly fit, although he had to settle mostly on the second. The tips of his ears felt warm as he took a step back.

"What are you doing up?" he asked, tilting his head at him.

John's eyes flickered over the mess of laundry in Sherlock's arms before jumping up to his face. Even in the half-light of a never-dark Baker Street flat, he could see concern in John's eyes.

"I couldn't sleep," John said. "Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be okay?" Sherlock retorted, shifting slightly.

John raised his eyebrows. "There's only two reasons to do your laundry in the middle of the night and I'm pretty sure I know which one is _isn't_," he said bluntly.

Sherlock's lips twitched towards a smirk. "Then you know which one it is." Not that standing in the hallway in nothing but wet boxers and the tang of urine prevalent in the air left much room for consideration. "Back in a moment."

He took his linens to the wash and started the cycle dully before going back to their kitchen. John was boiling the kettle, which sounded nice, but Sherlock had to have a shower. He was cold and the smell was getting to his nerves.

He returned to his bedroom after a very hot shower to find his bed made up with fresh sheets. He raised an eyebrow before setting to getting dressed in dry pyjamas. He was tempted to just crawl under the sheets again but wondered if it would end in disaster. He was aware that he shouldn't worry about it. Still, he left the bedroom, wrapping his dressing gown around his body to keep the heat in.

He joined John in the sitting room with his own cup of tea. They were submerged in silence for awhile. John broke it.

"It's completely normal, you know."

Sherlock glanced up. "I know."

"Nothing to be ashamed of," John continued. "You've been through a lot."

"I _know_," Sherlock retorted indignantly. "I know the processes. My dreams produce fear, which triggers my flight or fight response. The autonomic nervous system is responsible for urination, but when the adrenalin kicks in from flight or fight, other systems shut down in order to focus on the stressor. In this case, my ANS relaxed my bladder and, thus, nocturnal enuresis."

John raised his eyebrows again.

Sherlock sighed. "I know how every part in the human body works. I know reactions to fear, albeit I don't _understand _why they happen, per se. It is completely normal... Completely horrific," he mumbled over his tea, "but normal."

John sighed now, drawing his legs up onto the sofa. "Who ever knows why these things happen due to fear or anxiety... I've been having nightmares again, too."

Sherlock flicked his gaze to John again, frowning through the gloom. How had he not noticed?

"I wondered why you hadn't pulled me up on it yet," John said quietly. "But now I realise you were having your own problems... That's why you've been keeping yourself awake, isn't it? Drinking all that ruddy tea and coffee?"

Sherlock put his mug down. "No, I was just having nightmares to begin with... The other thing just started this morning, probably because of all the caffeine I consumed." He was growing very weary of this conversation, very quickly.

"They say talking about it helps," John said quietly, after a few beats of silence.

Sherlock snorted. "I'm not talking about my 'feelings', John. Besides, you never told your therapist anything, anyway."

"How do you know?"

"'Trust issues'," Sherlock quoted, remembering it from a book from John's therapist that Mycroft had nicked a few year ago.

John frowned. "How do you know that?"

"Mycroft told me," he said absently. "But I knew anyway."

John sighed. "Why am I not surprised?" He was quiet for a moment. "I don't really... I'm not good at advice for this, Sherlock. One minute, I wasn't right, and the next, you were there. Things changed when I met you. But I think... I think it's probably a bit different. Our types of PTSD..." John laughed dryly. "God, there's a phrase I never thought I'd say. 'Our PTSD'..."

Sherlock didn't say anything.

John was right... sort of. John's post-traumatic stress disorder had been visible because John had _missed_ the action of war and having a place to belong. Sherlock's... symptoms were there because... because why, exactly? Because he'd been shot at? He'd watched people blow up on land mines? He'd imagined finding John in less than satisfactory condition?

But it all boiled down to 'post-traumatic'. War was traumatic.

He sighed slowly.

"Do you want to play Cluedo?" John asked suddenly.

Sherlock opened his eyes, unaware that he'd closed them. "... What?"

"Cluedo. I... well, I don't even know if you have Cluedo anymore..."

Sherlock stared at him. "I... don't understand. You hate Cluedo," he said bluntly. "You never wanted to play."

"I never wanted to play it with _you_," John clarified. "But I feel like it now."

Sherlock frowned. "Is this some kind of coping mechanism? You're trying to take my mind off of this," he said.

John shrugged. "So? Where's your game?"

Sherlock's frown deepened. "... A storage unit, I think. Mostly everything that Mycroft took back ended up there and I hadn't had time to move it back in yet..."

John stood up. "Well, come on, then."

Sherlock was certain that the frown hadn't yet left. "'Come on', what?"

"Let's go get it."

"It's four in the morning," Sherlock pointed out. "And I just put these pyjamas on; I don't want to take them off again."

John shrugged again. "I didn't say you had to change." He picked Sherlock's coat up off the door and offered it to him.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment longer before raising an eyebrow. He pushed himself to his feet gracefully (or as gracefully as someone running on very little sleep in the past week could be) and took his coat from John without a word.

* * *

If someone asked Sherlock how he and John ended up in a storage unit at four in the morning, having a row over imaginary characters in an imaginary murder in a _stupid_ children's game, he would have honestly said he didn't know.

"No, _look_," John said loudly, leaning over the table that the Cluedo board was stretched out on (the table that would eventually return to its rightful place between in the windows in the front room of Baker Street). "It is physically _impossible_-"

"Not entirely," Sherlock said, off-handedly.

John thumped his fist onto the table and leaned back in the chair, shaking his head. "I give up," he said. He was smiling.

"So, I win," Sherlock said cheerfully.

"Dammit, _no!_ Go again!" John said, reaching for the tokens.

* * *

Sherlock peeled the candlestick off of his cheek, wincing as he rubbed the tender spot on his face. He didn't know how many games of Cluedo they played; being in a storage unit tended to obscure one's perception of time of night or day. He won quite a few and John managed one or two on his own, too, but that had only been when Sherlock had started getting too drowsy to catch his own mistakes.

And then they had, somehow, ended up both falling asleep, sprawled out on the table over the Cluedo board.

He had fallen asleep on the candlestick and now had an imprint on his face, one that he was trying to rub away as he yawned widely. He rest his arms on the table placed rest his head back on them, looking at John.

His flatmate was still asleep. Through the gloom, he could see that John was deep in the stages of REM sleep. His eyes were moving underneath his lids, but he wasn't exhibiting any signs of a nightmare.

John still looked pale, probably product of the extended stay in Afghanistan, their torture, their recovery. There were dark shadows under his eyes, accentuated by the glow of the singular lightbulb in the storage unit. Lack of sleep from nightmares, from worry, from pain. The lightbulb cast a soft sheen on John's soft golden locks, bespeckled by age with silver and gray.

Sherlock reached forward and gently brushed a piece of hair from John's face. John shifted slightly, but didn't wake up, just pressed his face more firmly into his own arms.

He looked so vulnerable when he was sleeping, Sherlock realised with his half-hearted deduction. Or perhaps _vulnerable_ wasn't the right word. Maybe... innocent. The tension left his shoulders, the lines in his forehead smoothed out; he looked... childlike.

John moved away, curling more over the Cluedo board. His eyelids fluttered for a moment before his gaze slowly came to look around the room.

Sherlock met his gaze, not bothering to raise his own head from his arms. "Morning."

John sat up slowly. Sherlock caught every wince as John moved. The psychosomatic limp had come back while he had been gone, Sherlock could tell, even if it was gone now. The war had kept it and the tremor at bay, but sleeping curled over a table did nothing good for anyone's body. Even Sherlock felt stiff, and he had slept in a lot of strange places.

"... Says who?" John mumbled, stretching. "Oh, f..." He rubbed his back after it cracked particularly loudly in the otherwise silent room.

"Well, assuming that the sun is indeed out, it is morning. Or even afternoon or evening, although I doubt that I would have slept that long," Sherlock said.

John sighed and stood. "Oh, God," he muttered, after his joints cracked with the motion.

Sherlock smirked briefly. "You're getting too old for this, John."

John, as per usual with any aging member of the human society, bristled at the comment. "I am not!" he snapped, twisting around to work the kinks out of his back. "I'm just not used to sleeping over a bloody table, that's all!"

Sherlock turned his head into the crook of his arm to yawn again. "If you say so."

"I'm not even forty yet," John muttered.

"In a year and a half," Sherlock remarked, finally raising his head. He got to his feet, stretching his arms behind his back.

"Oh, shove off."

Sherlock tilted his head, looking towards the vertically sliding door. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said, as John started towards the door.

"Why not?" John asked distractedly. "I want to go home. And go back to bed."

"It's raining outside," Sherlock said, peeling back the flap on one of the cardboard boxes in the storage unit. "We have a three minute walk to the gate, let alone getting a cab."

John stopped. "Wait, it's raining? I don't hear it."

"It just started. It'll be pouring in a few minutes. Best not to risk it."

John sighed and flopped back into his chair. "Grand."

"Must be relatively early... ten o' clock, I'd guess. If you wouldn't have rushed me out of the flat earlier, I would have grabbed my watch. Oh!" Sherlock pulled out a box of nicotine patches from the box he was looking through. "Fantastic."

"Sherlock," John muttered. "What is all this stuff, anyway?"

"The stuff from Baker Street," Sherlock said, shrugging. "Mycroft said you let him take care of the flat after my death." He weighed a small model train in his palm, setting it aside. "My microscope is around here somewhere."

"You haven't taken that back to the flat? I hadn't noticed," John muttered, joining him by the box. "What's this?" he asked, picking up a yellow mold in the shape of a face.

"That," Sherlock said, swiping it from John's hand, "was a facial imprint for a case.

"The Case of the Yellow Face?" John asked blandly. "What, did the victim have jaundice?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No." He put it back in the box.

"I've never seen this stuff before," John said, picking up a book. "_Le Petit Prince_? What is this? Is this a children's book?"

Sherlock swiped that away from John quickly. "You're saying it all wrong. It's not 'lay'. It's _luh_. And it's not 'prince' like in 'princess'. It's _prince_."

"It sounds like you're trying to say 'prawns' and you've got a hairball."

Sherlock sniffed. "Just because you fail at speaking another language doesn't meant that I do."

"What's it mean, then? It does mean 'prince', doesn't it? Like royalty."

Sherlock thumped the worn book back into the box. "Yes."

"Doesn't _petit_ mean 'small'?"

"You're not pronouncing that correctly, but yes."

"So, _Le Little Prince_."

"_Le _means 'the'," Sherlock muttered.

"_The Little Prince_?" John picked the book up again, flipping through the pages. He looked up at Sherlock, raised his eyebrows, and burst out laughing to himself.

Sherlock bristled and grabbed the book back again. "I was a child, John," he said defensively, putting the book back again.

"Sorry, sorry... Little princes don't seem like something you'd deal with, though," John said, still chuckling. "Oh."

Sherlock glanced towards John. The doctor bent down to pick something up; Sherlock realised it was a photograph a half second after John touched it.

"Are these your parents?"

Sherlock sighed and looked over John's shoulder as the photo. "Yes."

"Your Mum's pretty."

Sherlock didn't reply. He instead went back to the box, rifling through old case notes for anything he hadn't seen in awhile.

"I see the bloody cheekbones run in the family," John muttered, handing the photo back.

Sherlock threw it back in the box haphazardly. "So it would seem."

"You're not very family-oriented, are you?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Sherlock asked absently. "I don't remember this stuff. This must have been stuff that Mycroft had at the house. I certainly wouldn't keep childhood mementos."

"Yeah... Why don't you read this to me?" John asked, picking up _Le Petit Prince_ for the third time.

Sherlock glanced at the book and rolled his eyes. "No."

"I want to know why you liked it!" John protested. "And I can't read it."

Sherlock sighed and grabbed the book back, again, and trudged over to the table. "Oh, let's see." He licked his thumb and paged the book open, past the publishing information, the dedication, to Chapter One. "'Lorsque j'avais six ans j'ai vu, une fois, une magnifique image, dans un livre sur-'"

"_Not_ in French, you daft bastard, in English!"

Sherlock looked up, eyebrows raised and fighting a smirk. "Oh, I didn't realise."

"Yeah, you did," John muttered, sinking into the chair opposite.

Sherlock rearranged his grip on the book (it was so ragged that the spine was bent and draping) and returned his eyes to the words. "'Once, when I was six years old, I saw a magnificent picture in a book called _True Stories from Nature_, about the primeval forest. It was a picture of a boa constrictor in the act of swallowing an animal.'"

"Oh, this is a wonderful bedtime story for children," John muttered.

"At least it had _some_ science in it," Sherlock retorted. He returned to the story. "'Here is a copy of the drawing.'" He sarcastically flourished the book towards John, showing him the picture.

"Huh. Teaching kids to copy others work. Lovely."

"Do you want me to read it or not?" Sherlock griped. "I might face the walk in the rain if we're going to keep doing this."

John laughed quietly. "Don't be tetchy, Mr Defensive. I'm just joking. Continue. Please?"

"I do have other things I could be doing."

"Yeah, like what? Rooting through boxes of useless tat or reading me a story from your childhood; which sounds better to you?"

"My things are _not_ useless. They all have their special place."

"Like the green goo I found under the couch cushions yesterday?"

"I don't know how that got there." Sherlock ruffled the pages of the book pointedly. "'In the book, it said: "Boa constrictors swallow their prey whole, without chewing it. After that, they are not able to move, and they sleep through the six months that they need for digestion."'"

John didn't comment and Sherlock pressed on.

* * *

The pattering of the rain against the metal roof and Sherlock's voice must had lulled John back to sleep. He was still sitting up, but his elbow was propped on the table and his head on his fist and his breathing had evened out to match sleeping rhythm.

Sherlock's eyelids were growing heavy from the combination of the stuffiness of the storage unit and the rain and the book.

He'd never admit it, but he still sort of liked _The Little Prince_. Yes, it was stupid; it was whimsical and it was childish. Sherlock didn't like any of that. But there were still certain morals that were meant for adults in that story. The thing about _The Little Prince_ was that, reading it as a child, one saw the colourful pictures and the talking flowers and foxes and snakes and sheep alive in an illustrated box and it was all wondrous and amazing. When one read it as an adult, there were so many meanings and morals that it almost seemed too deep to be a children's story. Greed, beauty, self-sacrifice, the nature of Life and Death itself. Sherlock didn't put too much stock into much of any of it, but he did enjoy the story, always had. It wasn't logical but it had been his first venture into such things and even consulting detectives didn't delete that.

Albeit if it was in a little box labelled _Danger: Childhood Memories. Proceed with caution._ in his mind palace.

There was one thing, though. Just one thing that he had picked out out of all of it: that which was important was invisible to the eye. True and not true.

The heart was the thing that mattered. It was essential to life. Sherlock knew that, but he didn't put much into emotion and things. They were there, but he tried to ignore them. He considered the brain most important, but the heart _was_ essential. He wasn't stupid. But feeling and seeing were two different things.

He'd never had something that he could say that he 'saw the importance of it with his heart'. It just had never made much sense. He saw with his eyes and his heart kept him alive. Another funny thing. His heart kept him alive...

Sherlock pried his eyes open and looked towards John.

He could see with his heart now. It was strange, and it was frightening, but he could see with his eyes _and_ his heart. So, the most important thing could be seen with the eye, but the meaning beneath it could only be felt.

Sherlock smiled faintly and rest his head on his arms, closing his eyes again. He fell asleep to the sound of rain, and the smell of old books, and the gentle snoring of the most important one at the table opposite him.

* * *

**This took longer than I had planned to get posted, but it's about double the length of a normal chapter of mine, so there you go. And while I'm springing surprises, this the final chapter of this story. :( I know. I hadn't planned to end it here, either. But some times are better left unsaid, and while I could go on and on about how they work through their PTSD, I think this is a good place to let it be. I'm sorry for the sudden springing of a final chapter on you, but I quite like it. (I actually enjoyed this whole story a _lot_ more than I planned, too.)**

**Oh, for the record, if you haven't read _The Little Prince_, you should. The beginning in which Sherlock reads to John does start out sounding a bit strange- boa constrictors eating mice?- but it really is an amazingly touching story after you get into it. And while it _is_ meant for children, there is so much for adults to take away from it. I wholly recommend it.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. I do not own _Le Petit Prince_ (by Antoine de St Exupery). I love your reviews and I thank you for your continued support. :)**

**Believe.**


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